


Home Fires

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Skin-changer [4]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Non-Penetrative Sex, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s changed skin and names time upon time, sand grains building into desert. Changed, shifted, crisped on the edges as she acquired new scars and scorches, but never burnt to cold cinder. Violet knows her in each and every change, from dark moon to bright shadow, all her past selves stacked whisper-thin on the fault lines of old bone and nurtured pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Fires

She leaves Dog in one of the abandoned houses north of Violet’s fort. Most of the gear stays with him-- bedroll, food, miscellaneous parts and pieces she can sell once she gets to Westside or Freeside-- but she keeps two bottles of Nuka and some gecko steaks. A few other items, small gifts and tokens tucked in her pack.

He presses his lips to her scalp, sniffs deep like trying to hold her in like smoke, but lets go. Can’t hold her when she doesn’t want to be held, knows better than to try. Six doesn’t have to look back to know he’s watching her leave, hand shaded over his eyes as she makes her way through Violet’s territory. She catches a glint off Violet’s scope, grins wide and waves her hands broad. Welcomes the dogs who come loping to greet her with brisk pats and strips of molerat jerky, aware of Violet standing guard with her sniper rifle.

When Six finally reaches the Fiend, the dark woman smiles with sharp teeth. Lunges forward, grabs her hand and pulls her into a bitter-chalk kiss, chapped lips and wet tongue. They fall together, limbs tangling and breath crackling like kindling as Six lands on top, wedges her knee between Violet’s thighs and Violet arches beneath her.

“He knows you don’t love him, yeah?” Violet growls, eyes sharp and fingers lazy as they trace the scars on Six’s arm.

Six nuzzles closer, licks salt from the tender underside of Violet’s jaw. So close to the throat, even if her own teeth aren’t knife-sharp like Violet’s. One of the dogs whines, belly-crawling close, and Six gives an open-palmed shove to the beast’s snout. No sharing.

“He knows. Doesn’t stop him caring.” Six presses her palm flat on a thin blanket, scratchy material protecting her hand from the baked earth. Pushes herself up a little ways, tiny gap between her and Violet. “Jealous?”

Violet cackles, fingers curling on Six’s arm, other hand twisting tight in the base of Six’s ponytail, twining closer in this slow-burn mingling they have, tangling like barb-wire with all their sharp edges spaced so close it’s easy to forget they’re two, not one.

“If I were jealous, would have shot you both, drug-girl.” Scrapes the back of her nail against the scars over her ear, trails her tongue over the comet-blaze path of Benny’s bullets. “You get cold enough, even monsters can keep you warm.” The leather band around Violet’s wrist presses against the side of Six’s head. She doesn’t have to look to know it’s gecko-leather, not when she tanned it herself and gave it to Violet.

Their love is a violence, strength in the breaking and the rise that follows. Violet kisses hard, brings her hand down to crush Six’s thighs apart-- not bruise-rough, not even close because Six knows damn well how hard Dog tries when he’s trying _not_ to break her apart-- but enough to make Six bite her groan in her lip. Violet smirks, scraping sparks across her skin with ragged nails.

And Six straddles Violet, pulls her shirt up and over and leans forward again so her breasts spill over Violet’s. A forever-falling ache that Six cherishes like a blood tattoo, caught in the infinite darkness of Violet’s eyes. A memory to howl in the teeth of the Mojave moon.

Keene’s an asshole. Fun, but an asshole.

Dog’s too damn sweet. Obedience can’t make up for that.

But Violet is incandescent heat, cherished as the first scar of a beat-down. No demands, as much expectation as the desert wind. She’s loved Violet from the blue freeze of night through the orange heat of day, more familiar with the lines of her face and the scapulamancy crack of her lips than her own reflection.

Violet never needs her to be beautiful or petal-soft, some stupid prewar confection in pearls and heels.

Violet never needs her to be hard either, but she sighs appreciation over the corded sinew of her forearm and the jut of her jaw, turns her face to lap at the copper-sour cuts on the back of Six’s hands. She sits up, body rocking into Six’s and feeding her smoke and gecko in an open-mouthed kiss.

They’ve never needed much in the words, them-- didn’t matter Six (or Angel, Penelope, none of the shed-skin tatters of names she’s used and worn off over the years) never learned to roll the wine-soft syllables of a more extended vocabulary across the roof of her mouth, or that Violet never cared to learn more English than she does, not when she already carries half a dozen other tongues in her head, buried deep like withered seeds.

Words are fragile cobwebbed things when their blood sings to one another.

Violet knows the body-English of Six’s sighs, reaches down to Six’s jeans and grunts a question that Six answers with a moan. Violet unbuttons her, zips down hard and thrusts her fingers to the join of Six’s thighs, rubbing hard through the slick-soaked underwear and baying laughter as Six rides out the storm of her climax.

When Six reaches down and tries to return the favor, Violet bats her hands away with a growl. “Enough to make you feel good, drug-girl.”

And that’s love, so easy it’s hard, the way Six misses her in the space between heartbeats, the way she’s familiar as the sharp edge of a blade.

She’s changed skin and names time upon time, sand grains building into desert. Changed, shifted, crisped on the edges as she acquired new scars and scorches, but never burnt to cold cinder. Violet knows her in each and every change, from dark moon to bright shadow, all her past selves stacked whisper-thin on the fault lines of old bone and nurtured pain.

So Six stays in Violet’s lap, twisting to grab her pack and pulling out her gifts. Psycho and Buffout, a couple hits of Jet-- plus fresh apples and corn, apple butter and a tiny jar of honey. Violet licks her lips meaningfully and Six takes an apple, buffs it on the cloth wrap she used to bundle it, and presses the red skin to Violet’s mouth. It breaks beneath Violet’s teeth, tart-sweet juice bursting against Six’s fingers as Violet chews noisy and content.

When the apple is finally nothing but core-- and then less than that, because Violet eats the very seeds and give a cyanide-grin at Six’s raised eyebrow-- and Violet licks the juice from Six’s hand, Violet asks, “Does he fuck you good?”

“We have fun, yeah.”

“How big?” Violet scratches behind her ear, fingers rustling through the hairs on Six’s scalp, and chokes a laugh when Six mimes size. “Fuck. How do you walk after, drug-girl?”

“Slowly. You want to…?”

“Fuck no. You have fun, keep him and his cock away from me.” Violet unscrews the lid off the apple butter and dips a finger in. Her eyebrows rise high as she lifts it to her nose and licks the brown paste. When she kisses Six on the mouth, it’s sweet and spice-sharp. “Tasty.”

“You’re not bad yourself,” Six says with a smirk, cupping her hands over Violet’s shoulders. “And Dog’s more than a dick. He does some real nice things with his mouth--”

“His name? _Dog_?” Violet starts laughing, jagged-edged and silver like the crescent moon. “Shit. Knew dogs always liked you, girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You know names don’t mean a damn.” She catches Violet’s ear between her teeth, tongue flicking the lobe as Violet bares her teeth in mock-growl. Six has already changed names so many times, but Violet knows her by blood and bone. Grind her down to charcoal and Violet would still know her. Hell, she doesn’t even know if ‘Violet’ was the Fiend’s milk-name. Doesn’t matter.

They spend a long and lazy night together, few words but many touches. Violet can read more in the twist of Six’s mouth than Six ever shares in fickle surface chatter. Petty shit like weather-talk or ‘how-you-been’ don’t mean much anyway. But Six shapes her silences with care, scrupulously avoiding talk about the Dam and the sniper that no longer follows her. They grill their gecko over low coals, swatting away the dogs, and when Violet eats the blood runs trickles down her chin.

When the dawn chases away the dull grey of morning, Six kisses Violet. Squeezes an arm around her shoulder, and the brown-skinned woman growls.

“Not every goodbye is gone, girl.”

And Six carries the weight of Violet’s regard, leaves behind a bite-mark on Violet’s shoulder. Maps the edge of her hip with one last caress, a token for the road and trail-sign for her safe return.


End file.
